Faithful Audience And All Things Unrelated
by Be3
Summary: The Journey of Strand... How Dr Watson's and not only his narratives became wide-known and much awaited. And some other unrelated happenings. 22 - warning: morgue.
1. Trevor

A/N: an answer to KCS's 221 b challenge. Dr Watson didn't know the extent of his audience. This is a piece about Victor Trevor.

_Ipslore smiled the terrible smile of suddenly mad…_ - T. Pratchett

He would certainly say he didn't buy the journal intentionally; amazing, how randomly one wastes money when they come down to the Capital of Trade. Colours, smells, cries, all assaulting one's senses, striving for superiority; the notion of _bargaining_ and _choosing_ at one's leisure; the disorienting freedom of one in a throng after the void of plantation.

Well, he saw it accidentally, and asked the price accidentally; but no Bombay _khonchavala _would_ sell_ anything accidentally.

A month later he went down with malaria and remembered it.

Enteric fever he could well sympathise with. He saw plenty of veterans, even hired some. Broken men. What they thought misery in England would have been nirvana here.

The illustrations came as a surprise. _So bald already_…

Stamford's words… well, whoever this Stamford was, he never stood a chance against his own memory.

Test for haemoglobin… really, it was only strange that it took him so long to complete.

Vices… now _that_ was more advertising then confessing. Modesty, thy name is I-need-someone-to-share-living-expenses-with.

The list was… priceless. _Wonder what Mycroft said when his brother was painted an illiterate man-hunter?_

The case… that sounded dangerous. Still, he never underestimated the fellow. _'I have it in me to make my name famous'…_

He smiled again – a homesick, unseeing, late-in-the-night smile.

_Doesn't Fate have a sense of irony?_

_Bull-pup._


	2. Mycroft Holmes

A/N: another answer to 221 challenge… Mycroft Holmes asks for an enormous favor.

Faithful audience: Mycroft Holmes

He frowned, looking back at their backstitch of a conversation.

Awkward didn't cover it.

The only bright point in it was him having his lunch on time; a poor consolation for a post-card from Hamelin with a tipsy rat peering into a flute (he desperately hoped that was Sherlock's poor sense of humour, nothing more). Not to mention that Colonel Moran was seen the other evening enjoying himself at the Opera.

He marveled at his own inability to control these two.

He sent cheques like a spendthrift; he never knew for sure who received them.

All the King's men were summoned to assist his brother (though for all appearances it was the other way round); he never knew who might betray him.

Now, he bullied the only man he feared for in London into writing an account of his brother's death… he prayed it would satisfy the Colonel.

'_The only reader who mattered'. A nice tomb inscription. _

At least he _did_ know that Dr Watson was unaware of Sherlock Holmes's survival.

Meanwhile, this was the very thing Moran could not know and must therefore be informed of as soon as governmentally possible. One could hope he'd leave the doctor be for a while.

_He'd have to gamble with a _life_._

Absently, he picked up the other cup – untouched, stone-cold, and bitter.


	3. Dr Sterndale

A/N: Dr Sterndale left civilisation behind him... England's green and pleasant land is from William Blake's _Jerusalem.  
_

_I am memory and torment – I am town! I am all that ever went with evening dress…- _Kipling

He was the very least bit disappointed not to find a new installment of Dr Watson's narratives in the issue. He usually tore the thing apart immediately after reading one – waste not, want not: paper was best for plant presses and wrappings.

Some beardless missionary saw him rolling a cigarette of a church bazaar advertisement and proclaimed him a barbarian; he burst out laughing barbarically.

It was his loved one's nickname for him. It was his wife's curse for him. It was the difference between fighting the desert and deserting the fight.

_It was common sense._

But the stories he collected. They were squeezed between his journals and innumerate samples; they traveled him through choleraic hell of '99 and high water of '03.

He lost more pack horses to stealing and more carriers to worms than he lost these tales of misery and corruption – these legends of bravery and pity. The beacon of justice and mercy.

Countless nights, guarding quinine supply; _shoot, don't ask_; his tent not a shelter but a trap.

Hourless days, charting, hunting, airing herbaria; his hair an Ascot course for lice, his clothes uniformed by months of wearing.

Rabies.

Rotten water.

_Dreams of _England's green and pleasant land.

He flattened his warped notebook on his knee.

_Jan. 15__th__. In CT, wire Mr Holmes and find a bindery._


	4. Moran

A/N: Moran is evil… I presume that he joined Moriarty as early as 1885 or 1886, after being discharged from the Army. Queen Victoria reigned since June 20 1837.

Faithful audience: Moran

He was always curious, in his earlier career, what it would be like without Professor James Moriarty to rule the world.

The man was a genius; serving him was not diminishing one's self, but diminishing London. He knew his master mocked flattery in any form; but in Army one learns to pay respect where it is due, and he was not known for his cowardliness. It was a testament to his willpower that he presented Professor with _Travels of Gulliver_ June, 20 that fateful year of 1887.

He never repeated the gesture, not because it went unnoticed; it was the first time he heard Moriarty laugh, and thankfully the last.

And yet – he was right… It was all a matter of perspective. Gulliver towered above fictitious Lilliputs; Professor towered above British; he himself towered above Holmes at the Reichenbach Falls.

_Gulliver was lucky to survive all those shipwrecks._

_Then again, there is literature, and there is life._ Holmes would be – _will be_ – the first to confirm it; whether by being killed by a soft pistol bullet or by sending him to the gallows, it was yet impossible to tell.

On a whim, he pulled a magazine and flipped through the pages.

_Air-gun._

No wonder those Metropolitan Morons never learned. They confronted a Professor, but didn't so much as open a _book_.


	5. Watson

A/N: this is for Tristan-the-Dreamer, who said about authors describing an "average" Holmes and an "average" Watson.

- Holmes?

I knelt heavily before the tombstone.

Rain tapped my shoulders – and the marble – with child-like persistence and age-old uncertainty. Yesterday it was drizzle and fog, Nature being baffled by your disappearance; tomorrow she will be pouring out buckets of her fiercest grief.

You warned me against unpredictability of women. When did you do it? I could assign a date. Maybe even a woman. A case.

Bah. It _must_ have happened somewhere in April.

- You know, old fellow, I begin to forget your… not _limits_, no… ways, manners… I don't want to! It just all mixes together, and… it shouldn't happen… it's like you always were _the same_… an _everyholmes_…

Nature lingered companionably, unheeding her worrisome stock of freaks and geniuses.

- People ask questions… I wrote up new stories for _Strand_… I still receive _letters_ – some don't believe you died…

But I _know_ you did. I don't forget it for a minute – there is hell to pay when the minute passes.

- Would you rather be immortal?.. I've seen Mycroft last week; he's fine.

_Why isn't he here today? _This is the first time I have only Nature for company.

Last week I buried my wife.

It rained, too.

- He asked me to publish your last case. I will… to read myself… to have something to remember you by.


	6. Neville StClaire

A/N: I got tired of _Strand_-centered pieces… this is about how St Clairs kept afloat after the disaster of the _Man with the Twisted Lip_.

- Let me help you with that brow...

- No, darling, it's perfect, really.

- You will scare the wits out of them! A regular ruffian!

_Now_ she noticed it.

- Fine, O Browbeating Beauty.

- You are the star here, - she retorted, adjusting my right brow.

I sighed.

It's been a year since that unfortunate business with "A Bar of Gold". A year of torturous doubts; pennies appearing miraculously on my desk; my wife 'just walking by' and dropping in for a chat.

A man can only take so much.

- I do beg you'll refrain from mutilating my nose.

- Great nose. By the way, Mr Holmes sent a word they're coming.

- Mr Holmes!

- What, do you think they will miss your first performance?

I seethed. She had the audacity to nod and powder my cheeks.

- I didn't in truth expect you to accept his offer.

- Me neither.

- Then why did you do it? For the children?

I tugged at the bearskin – how its erstwhile occupant managed to bend himself or his limbs without being fatally undressed was beyond my imagination. No bending, then.

- For you. I love you, Ms St Claire.

- I believe you, Mr St Claire.

- Next time, could we play something other then 'Beauty and the Beast"?


	7. Murray

A/N: set in 1887, after Watson published the _Study in Scarlet_. Iron Amir is Abdur Rahman Khan (ruled 1880 – 1901). Murray's last day in service.

He stretched his back; the day was over at last.

And wasn't it the day! Tomorrow he will be shipped off with the rest of them –_ what's the word… useless junk?_ – and never return.

Leave behind the slaughter of Kabul; the graveyard of Maiwand; the single explosion of Panjdeh that had them all on tenterhooks for the last two years. Flee from iron mercies of the Iron Amir, who had no power over British and so contented himself with rewriting geography around them. You went to sleep with one local tribe in the neighbourhood, and woke up to find another – a Great Game, but a gory mess nonetheless. Was it his good fortune that he didn't qualify as a proper surgeon? Had he dreamed about the career?..

He felt tired, and yet unable to close his eyes, unable to drink with his comrades. It was a night that didn't belong.

He had a family; they sent him a photo a couple weeks ago – she a serene matron, the boys all grown-up – and a journal where one of his young charges praised his name.

The day he tried walking with crutches.

He was fairly mobile already… nothing like flesh and bone to bear one's weight, but being alive outweighed losing half a leg.

Time to turn in. Wasn't he Murray the Brave?


	8. Doyle & Postman

A/N: this is about _real_ life getting in the way of fine art… I don't know what they wrote back then when a letter or a telegram was sent to a wrong address, so if anyone knows, please tell me. A postman brings a message to a doctor.

He opened the door, saw me and immediately darkened. I didn't want a repeat of the last time anymore than he, but one must work for one's living.

- Here you are, Mr Doyle.

- I told you, I'm not going to...

- Doesn't matter, sir.

- This is intolerable! Listen, man, can you just send it back as usual? "Invalid address" or some such?

- It says _urgent_.

- Does it, now? I DON'T CARE WHAT IT SAYS! You have no right to harass me... You can't use my address for this purpose!

- Terribly sorry, sir, but I can, actually. Professional ethics.

- Ethics!

- Yes, sir, moral philosophy.

He sighed and tore the envelope.

- Mr Scott Eccles of Popham House, Lee would like to consult Mr Holmes about his missing spaniel. _Garsia_, - spat he.

- Er.

- What would you have me answer?

- 'Mr Holmes unfortunately indisposed will be available December'?

- I don't want another telegram come December! He might still be looking for the dog!

- 'Mr Holmes is a fictional character and therefore unable to consult you'?

He growled.

- 'Mr Holmes currently abroad will notify when he comes back'?

- Yes. That would do.

- Thank you, sir.

He muttered about Scot Eccles being an excellent last name.

Another story?..

Bother.


	9. Doyle & Paget

A/N: two co-authors discuss an upcoming instalment of their project… Mr Paget married Edith Hounsfield on 1 June 1893. Mr Doyle published _The Hound of Baskervilles_ from August 1901 to April 1902. Otherwise - well, perhaps it could have happened...

- You – lost.

- Unintentionally.

- But you _lost_.

- Ohh... well, so I did.

He squirmed and sighed.

- Look, I never had any objections to you letting a word or two out before it is done.

- You do now, - observed he.

It was the last straw.

- OF COURSE I HAVE! I DIDN'T... think I'd have to resume writing these series – _ever again_! HOW can a man survive falling down a cataract?! You didn't see the Reichenbach Falls – _a regiment_ of Holmeses would disappear, and none the wiser!

He made as if to cover his face from my spittle.

- It's a debt of honour, Arthur.

- It's _your_ debt of honour, _Sidney_.

- Just one story.

My resolve weakened in the face of his absolute misery.

- What did you promise them?

- A hellish hound, a beachcomber, and an American baronet.

- …My, you _were_ drunk.

- Please? They will skin me alive if it's not in print by August.

- Fine. But you quit card-playing.

- I have to occupy myself with something! You don't know how dull it gets in the evenings.

- Marry and move out.

He pursed his lips.

- All right…

- Next one will be about a dandy dying in a locked room while counting his winnings.

- Blast.


	10. Watson 2

A/N: definitely AU – Holmes encouraging Watson to write? How could he?? But seriously, I wonder why Watson didn't write anything besides Holmes' related stuff.

- Have you ever succumbed to poetry?

I laughed easily.

- No, Heaven forbid. Not since college, anyway.

He nodded, a drawn-faced sage in a black frock-coat.

- Drama?

- Holmes! Don't be ridiculous.

- I am not. One would expect an author to try his hand at different genres.

I shrugged and settled back; the brougham swayed drunkenly.

I didn't regard myself as some tragically misunderstood literature prodigy; it was my fascination with his personality and work that kept my pen moving. Without him, why should I continue? And now that he was back, it didn't seem a great loss to lay it aside.

- Sermons? Reviews? Libretti? No? Is there any other kind of wordplay you might feel yourself suited for?

_Eulogies_. I sobered.

- Why so interested in my writing?

He waved his hand evasively.

- I somehow expected to see more of it in the past years, is all.

_In the past years,_ rang in my head.

- I wasn't sure what cases would be less disruptive to your clients.

- _Our_ clients.

- Oxford street already!

- Your diversions are by no means as trustworthy as your discretion… I was trying to tell you – and I shan't repeat it either – that your stories are quite… readable.

_He missed them._

- Just don't go in for burlesque.


	11. H Watson

A/N: 2 BAD WORDS HERE. Consider yourself warned.

He barged his tankard against the table; sticky froth splashed and washed away some grime. Swinish hell-hole. He only came here because last week they threw him out from the "Dregs".

Shame, that. There were probably less of them than he counted. Could have given it a try. And the brew here was fit for drowning kittens.

- Watson! Heard your brother back?

- Go'way.

- No, really! Tha'ss not th' way to meet one of your own. He's some hero now, isn' Johnny.

- I said, go away, or you leave this fine establishmen' straight to the churchyard.

- What, read a story and went all for big words? Tsk, tsk. Aren't you a snob.

He growled and rushed forward, fists a-flying madly; in a wink, everyone was engaged in the scrum.

It felt good. Oh, but it did. A gentleman's treat. That was the reason he didn't mind stale porter and staler mutton as much as he thought he ought to; the chance to discharge his impotent fury.

His little brother went to the war and was wounded there, like some knight errant. He stayed, and what he now was? A bleeding drunkard.

Andrew Watson sent his opponent sprawling on the muddy floor, his mind replaying those horrid words –

_'I had neither kith nor kin in England...'_

_You _bast.._._


	12. Editor

A/N: a letter received by an editor who asked an author to enlighten him on certain points…

–'_Dear Sir,_

_A personal matter would I like to address you regarding. For the last several years, a devoted reader of the series about the consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes, I've been, written by Dr J. Watson. Forgive my boldness and consider my proposal with all due seriousness.'_

'_As an editor of such estimable periodical, you're a strict judge of style and morals of the pieces you allow to be printed; and while on your consideration I congratulate you, there always are some doubts among the parties involved, as the stories sometimes are more revealing than is prudent.'_

'_It has come to my knowledge that in the upcoming issue a tale of some indiscretion on the part of an illustrious personage is to be included. Being a trusted representative of said personage, to pay close attention to facts, and particularly to their possible impact on public opinion is what I beg you to do humbly. Certain details should be omitted; names changed; and in no way is there to be any disrespectful remark on behalf of the client, or one that can be so interpreted. Dr Watson should be able to tell you what ruinous slander can publication of the whole truth trigger…'_ – blahblahblah – _'yours faithfully'_ – _'a _well-wisher_'_. Well, sir?

– Well, sir, I didn't lie about him being a Bohemian!


	13. Mrs West

Somehow, she didn't believe in justice until this day.

True, Mr Holmes did his outmost to help her – a pension, a memory service, there was even some talk about a medal. Again, she thought about writing him a letter of thanks – and again decided against it. He would answer her with his usual politeness that made one feel like they were stealing the Time itself.

The other Mr Holmes, however, was different. He visited her that evening when he discovered the culprit.

_'Ms West', said he, 'your son was innocent.'_

_She swallowed a cry of joy and despair, hiding her face. Miss Westbury, who hasn't left her side since _that_ night, sobbed and clapped her hands._

_'However, he might still be considered guilty by those who aren't aware of what really happened...'_

_'I understand.'_

_Mr Sherlock Holmes nodded his respect and turned to leave, but his companion stepped forward impulsively._

_'One day they will know.'_

_She clenched her fists, unladylike and not caring one whit about it, and straightened her back._

'_Do that, and I'm in your debt forever.'_

_He bowed, and they were gone in the thinning fog._

She sent Violet the journal, to release the girl from her mourning, and a paper-weight – the most precious thing Cadogan ever possessed – to Dr Watson. It was worth more than simple bronze.


	14. Not an old lady

A/N: it is often thought that Holmes was offended by the "old woman of Duncan Street" – but was he?..

The skies above were baby-blue, the grass between his fingers nascent green.

He didn't know what a living Hope was supposed to say to a dead one.

- They'd only give a... body to a relative or a friend, and I couldn't be a friend without being an accessory, now could I?.. Sorry, Jeff, I'm a bit under the weather. One that you'd like – all sun and clouds, and not a drop in two hours already.

There was someone nearby, dusting off an epitaph with weathered sorrow. He was selfishly glad of company.

- The papers had a field-day... Nearly convinced me you were some cage-dweller who escaped from a museum and slaughtered those two scoundrels for abducting his cage-woman... pity you're here, and Lucy right over the ocean.

He glanced again at the man with the bowed head – a friend, a relative, or an actor trusted enough to save a woman's honour, but not a man's life?

- I thought you'd leave for good once you avenged her... why didn't you just ask for money! You'd lie side by side, probably.

He coughed in his fist; his eyes felt sore and cold from the wind.

- I must go – the matinee's in an hour.

He thought his fellow mourner's face cleared slightly, when he took out the ring to bury.


	15. Medium

A/N: a medium, a lord, a ghost… and a novel by our estimable Doctor.

His Lordship laughed so hard he had to lean at the tabletop, squashing my toes inadvertently.

- Phosphorus! Who do they think they are trying to fool?

PERHAPS IT WAS SOMETHING OTHER, rattled the ghost.

- Naturally! Was the dog as luminous when – when that Stapleton killed you, Sir Charles?

I racked my brains.

NO.

- How was it different?

I cursed doctors-turned-writers and scientists-turned-spiritualists. _How_ could he believe in communicating with the deceased through the means of a rickety table _and_ mock a phosphorus-seasoned canine... I'll switch to something less demeaning or traumatic than medium; no wages will sway my decision.

IT WAS PITCH BLACK.

- The dog? Or the night?

He's in an investigative mood!..

THE DOG. AND NO. I DIDNT SEE IT. ONLY THE TEETH. I HEARD IT.

I smiled at him victoriously, if somewhat foolishly, for how could I claim the credit for Sir Charles's ingenuity?

- And you ran! No, I didn't mean to offend you, - I had an image of Sir Charles, "unimaginative fatalist", turning in disgust and strolling away to his heavenly abode, - I myself would drop on the spot if ever I saw the fiend!

HOLMES KILLED IT, reminded the ghost gently.

- Oh! Have you seen him? What'd you think of him?

I recalled Mr Holmes' opinion of incorporeal.

BRILLIANT.


	16. Waiter

A/N: this is about a waiter at Simpson's… OC; hints at some knowledge that Holmes

acquired while investigating _the Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard_ by Westron Wynde. I also am not sure if the area in a restaurant where people dine is a "hall", so if anybody knows – please tell!

____________________________________________________________________________

He scowled at the tray, his back safely to the patron-filled hall. _How_ did they do it? By _what_ means of communication was the knowledge circulated? No; that was, indisputably, word of mouth. What galled him was the _accuracy_ with which the table was chosen.

Every day, some stranger would sit there and bleed the poor waiter dry about its two famous occupiers, Dr Watson and Mr Holmes.

Head steward held him in high esteem for sheer taciturnity.

Mr Holmes over-tipped him each time when there was a new serviette with his setting. Not a _standardly_ impeccable one; a _new_, though how he knew it was a mystery in itself and a slight on the laundry (one that the waiter wasn't intent to shed light upon). The price for plate and napkins stolen from his assigned table being retained from his salary, this income, reliable though irregular, came in quite handy.

He tried to spy the spy… and failed. There was no connection between people asking to be seated at the chair Mr Holmes preferred; to be served the wine he drank; to be given the expression he wore when the cook failed to live up to his expectations (ah, the only time he complied with that particular request…)

_But today!.._

His private approval aside, he couldn't do anything about a brainpan.


	17. Monk

A/N: shamelessly exotic... criticism very much appreciated!

Ostensibly, he was meditating.

His powers of detachment have been compared to those of his predecessor, and found superior. A trifle; he didn't feel any satisfaction to hear of it, nor was he expected to.

"Immaterial", as that Englishman would say. He mouthed the word. He was taught to see mind's ghosts for what they were – sinister, helpless, passing. Much like the man who reached his country at last.

What a creature. Entered the monastery "to find solace", but didn't seek it; talked to men of any standing without breaching the _etiquette_; was universally pitied for ignorance of general principles and praised for observance; in daylight, imitated their serenity, at night woke his neighbours with his roaming; never uttered a word about food's coarseness, but asked for starch for his collars – _starch!_

A caged tiger, but a laughing stock nonetheless.

He inclined his head contritely. The demon of curiosity lured him to discourse with the man; he thought he could understand their ilk if given a fair example. He beheld Britain personified – both her "virtues" and "faults" packed haphazardly in the form of a man, if only the books didn't lie, and his grasp of their language didn't distort the picture too badly – and how unbecomingly glad he was to be rid of him!

Truly, he was a "head llama".

_Bah._


	18. Peters

A/N: a bit of healthy malice here. Mr. Holmes wouldn't be surprised to learn of the proceedings, considering his opinion of the man's intelligence.

I paused in mid-step, feeling the sun of my motherland on my face for the first time in who knows how many years.

They say when one comes back to their roots, their hearts beat passionately, and sweet memories parade before their eyes.

I grinned. I never had any regard for Adelaide, and less than that for old wives' tales, but I could relate to this poetic canticle better than any actual Reverend.

- Darling, please don't stall, people are gathering.

There was a subtlest note of anxiety in my wife's appeal, and I plunged onward, into the vivifying hustle and bustle of the great port.

- Coming!

It seemed ridiculous for her to start worrying now, when we landed safe and sound at my parental soil after this perilous journey when she's been the soul of constraint. Granted, when one is as famous and sought-for as yours truly, it is sometimes difficult to decline all the honours one's admirers are so keen to bestow...

- It's a right outrage that these brutes should lose your luggage! - proclaimed Honourable Thomas B**, our sympathetic companion, "perfectly charmed" by "Mrs. P. Terse". - I'm looking forward to that rendez-vous… as soon as you are accommodated...

- Oh, I'm sure we'll find lodgings...

I smiled ruefully. Nothing will beat 36 Poultney Square, Brixton.


	19. Lestrade

A/N: set during the Hiatus. Different people need different encouragement in their work.

He hunched unrecognizably, feeling the unseemly whiteness of his clothing, bored and confused. Sometimes he couldn't help agreeing with that upstart's unshakable opinion of his abysmal ineptness.

It wasn't a matter of his professionalism anymore; he proved himself an able detective, one that even Gregson respected, nor jealousy – Mr. Holmes' abilities surpassed those of every given man in the Force, though Baynes of Surrey Constabulary was rumoured to have once given him a run for his money. He didn't mind public opinion – a Yarder can't afford such luxury.

And yet he was slighted in some unknown way.

He picked the discarded journal with some difficulty and placed it on the bedstand. A dismal bedstand in a dismal hospital where he dismally idled away his unplanned holiday.

How could he ever think that they would take him into confidence? They protected their clients' interests, but that wouldn't stop Mr. Holmes from sending a criminal to the gallows! True, the man didn't heed the law when it stood in his way, but he never abused _justice_!

Lestrade tugged the blanket to his chin. Apparently, neither of the gentlemen entrusted the official authorities the duty of seeing the justice done.

He listened to his roommates' sated gossip and tried to understand, again, why a dead man's long-forgotten rebuke stung sorer than his superior's bate.


	20. Le Villard

A/N: Le Villard tries his best. He just doesn't succeed.

He concentrated.

There was something... just visible... startlingly irregular... he would reach it any minute...

...No. The little traitor escaped his grasp and holed up in its favourite brain-cell.

_And there is only one way to fox the brute out. _

François dumped the dictionary (newspaper-covered, so as not to attract his colleagues' attention) on his desk.

He sighed wistfully. _Despite Doctor Watson being a beneficent influence on his knowledge of English, he so missed Mr. Holmes' fluent French. The man may be intimidating, uncommunicative, insulting..._

He moaned; the book flopped closed.

Three latinisms in a row. _What is the point in thinking in a language if you don't know the words?_

He envied his co-workers, who were not chosen as scapegoats each time there was some important foreigner to show about, or some papers to translate (one doesn't appreciate the power of a gesture until they are left with a foolscap and a pencil).

He barged his head against the slim volume. "Florid romanticism" was not the primal obstacle to overcome, if one took into account all those Shakespearean quotes, bouts of magniloquence and general obscurity that had nothing to do with the style and everything with Mr. Holmes' twisted sense of humour.

_Maybe, he should try reading another periodical?_

…No.

He knew the doubts would pass, but not the benefit.


	21. Moran & Professor

A/N: Moran again. Meiringen. As open and as truthful as can be.

- You know, Sebastian, the reason for my downfall is absurdly simple.

I inclined my head. When Moriarty mused aloud, the first thing was to determine whether or not he was notifying you of your imminent demise. It made being his right hand all the more strenuous, because the higher he valued your brainpower, the more obliquely he referred to that "loathsome necessity".

He made an exception for Mr. Holmes, who either required no circumlocution or failed to be positioned in sufficiently dramatic surroundings when they last met.

- How so?

- Englishmen.

I swallowed straight-facedly. He did need me to guard his back at the Falls, didn't he?

- And their laws.

- Indeed?

He nodded, his head wobbling up and down before resuming its side-to-side oscillations. It looked like he wanted me to listen, not to beg for my life (he wasn't that generous).

- We live in a world... populated by people who do not respect the law... their principles, ethics, morals during wars are not what they maintain during peace, or even holidays... there is but a handful of freaks who respect Bills of Parliament because they respect Parliament. Everybody has his own petty interests.

- But here we are.

- Aren't you proud of your fellow countrymen?

- That's why I prefer to arm myself beforehand!


	22. Holmes

A/N: a double piece about Holmes's self-education. Set months before STUD.

I stood near the table and toyed with scalpels.

I honestly did not want to do it.

I looked at the body's feet. Did they tell me his name; did I forget it, or didn't hear it through the roar? They didn't hear the roar, talking.

I only knew better than my own name: I did not want...

The pale light to slant down from the mortuary's high windows.

_Did he have one at all?_

A tramp. Frozen to death. Nobody's nobody. A middle-aged drunkard. A once upon-a-time carpenter. No personal effects, no shoes. I'll need to come to the Yard; they've taken a description to check whether he was a registered felon. Better than a rebaptization into another sinless John Smith (never born, dead once). I really wished I was present when they brought him in; half the clues were gone after he was washed and his belongings sorted.

I didn't want to… do it.

_Cut your finger, walk away a free man – _today_._

I saw myself poising the razor-sharp tip above his sternum (and the hand didn't shake); a quick incision, and I will forever remember the organs' positions. I've seen it done dozens of times. Granted, the bodies hadn't been beaten before the procedure. Medical training didn't require such extreme measures.

But I had to earn my baccalaureate.

__________________________________________________________________________

I was almost finished when the doorknob rattled against my stick (a precaution to not be interrupted). I checked my cuffs for bloodstains and unlocked the door to let Stamford the Ubiquitous in.

He looked in his element in this smelly room, a trademark unconcern of a surgeon upon his unwrinkled brow.

- You're green, - said he by the way of greeting.

I shrugged off-handedly.

- Still not used to dissecting on my own.

It was my first and, I hoped, my last autopsy.

Stamford predictably gaped, and I felt my aching shoulders sag an inch.

- You'd think livores mortis would move after beating.

- They didn't? – He asked faintly. I shook my head.

- Not noticeably. – I pushed past him, muttering about needing fresher corpses.

The sun was setting – I've been working for hours. November. Another year passed, I thought together with thousands of my fellow Londoners (people do reserve such sentiments for evenings), and it was a welcome thought.

I turned my steps towards Scotland Yard. Never in a thousand years would I allow a contributor to the art of deduction to remain a faceless victim; and even if he's lost in the annals of Science, his tombstone will bear two words of truth.

I only calmed down when Lestrade asked why I was all beamy.


	23. Helen Stoner

A/N: a situation where audience matters not a whit. (I watched once more the first series of Russian screen version of SH and once more was flabbergasted by Miss Stoner's attitude to her normal living conditions.)

You're back.

One minute you're twisting your hands and biting your lips in a two-wheeled cart (a length of sacking covering your skirt and left sleeve from the mud), the next you're blinking back tears upon seeing your infamous – legendary – home.

There, you played hide-and-seek. Your mother was terrified of you being stolen by gipsies, or bitten by some of _his_ vile creatures. It was fine; _he_ never allowed you the company of your peers, but you knew you'd be envied.

Sometimes, you buried treasures in the garden and drew maps. _He_ dug them out and became mad like a true brigand (especially if you took _his_ decanter to store them for future generations).

No, not generations; "for future girls".

You didn't mind _his_ beasts as much as you were expected to, and it caused people no end of embarrassment. _His_ shadow drove them to eggshell-covered sidewalks (if they did notice you around). You never suspected how odd your lifestyle looked for outsiders before _she_ was proposed to and suddenly missed your hyena and baboon.

(You decided to keep them, to honour your stepfather's memory.)

You are alone; and so you come inside, and sit in your room.

Doctor Watson wondered, would it be different if _she_ stayed here that night.

If you remembered then how important it is to believe.


	24. Moriarty versus ficwriters

A/N: Moriarty crack-fic. A world of possibilities…

The screen is too bright for my eyes.

I will adapt soon; there is something about Computers and the Underground that makes me weary in mind.

True, London was smellier when horses were relied upon for transportation; and workhouses grounded men into dust; and messages got intercepted to the ruin of fools who didn't know how to profit from a misheard word. These days, good people of England inhale different pollutants, laborers get thrown into the streets with finesse, and privacy is either a word to look up or protected by breakable software.

I went for a walk yesterday – cats suffer from curiosity, though I do prefer a more corporeal approach... Everybody seemed to know who Sherlock Holmes hasn't once been.

Forensic Genius (genius indeed, to do what he could not possibly have done given the state of technology at the time). Never-Played-Well Character (I heard his bowing was decent enough for an amateur). Ardent Heart (the respondent had managed a disturbingly thorough appraisal of Holmes's anatomy before I put my Swiss insight to good use and pointed out some inaccuracies in his idealistic description). Compulsory Reading (_sic transit…_). He-Who-Must-Live-In-A-Museum-With-His-Confederate-Who-Lent-Him-A-Hand (here a wink I didn't understand but despised nonetheless).

I never thought I'd defend him.

I just might; what better cover for a once-and-future-Napoleon-of-crime?

Fiction, here I come.

Adjust the brightness.


	25. Moriarty versus gamma distribution

A/N: I cheated with boa constrictor, yes. Another crack-fic about Moriarty. Dedicated to all who studied statistics…

Sebastian peered at the diagrams with cluelessness I haven't seen since my teaching days. I longed for a ruler.

- What's this?

- Graphs.

- What for?

- To model scientifically and perhaps influence what is written or typed.

He sighed and glared at my laptop.

- Is it possible? They aren't making any sense.

- If Man conquered Chaos, what is there to stop us?

He picked up a sketch I drew to summary my own failure as a mastermind of crime. Gamma-distribution. A steep incline of hard work; an inevitable, seemingly instantaneous flattish pique of professionalism and reaping one's rewards, and then - the bitter exponential drop. There was still some potential to skew the distribution, though. I will look into Alternative Universes.

There were others, too.

A Gaussian - a bell-shaped portrait of criminal population.

Continuous uniform - my mistake; I underestimated the good Doctor's crawling progress. Definitely skewed. I made a note.

Poisson ( = 1) - Scotland Yard at his most average. I once sent them a formula I'd thought to best account for every last bobby in our despairing city; later I learned they couldn't decipher the secret code and resorted to the services of Mr. Holmes, who allayed their fears but retained the letter.

- Is this… an elephant?

- In a boa constrictor.


	26. Stapleton

A/N: Baskerville Hall, a couple of years before HOUN.

- ...And so, we came back to our homeland, - my ex-wife finished nervously. It was her first recital; luckily, Sir Charles hadn't joined us yet, so there was nobody to get suspicious save Mr. Mortimer (that is to say, 'Doctor'; isn't it strange how cheap some men are?) and Mr. Barrymore.

Dr. Mortimer smiled cordially.

- I can't imagine what it must have been for you. All these years... but of course, you couldn't forget Devonshire - fascinating country... forgive my insistence - was your decision forwarded by some seemingly insignificant occurrence? There're some works on how memory works... - He blushed under "Miss Stapleton"'s kind gaze. I twirled an _Orchis_ I collected in the morning after nearly drowning in the morass.

- _Rosemary is for remembrance_, eh?

- Is this rosemary? - asked Barrymore. I really can't see how the old man tolerates him.

Everybody laughed (except the hapless butler), to our host's heart's content. He chose the moment to come down to the table, with a plethora of apologies for his lateness.

I suppose I can overlook a minor foible in a man whom I will soon dispose of.

However, there was another one. Years of dealing with children taught me to never underestimate those who ask reasonable questions.

I will have to look out for the bumpkin.


	27. Holmes & Watson

A/N: What could Holmes give Watson as a present?..

The trickiest issue was Clothes.

His pride could be insulted by both quality of what I stored (he is picky about what he wears, but one doesn't leave anything marketable in such places) and the fact that I bought them (I do hope he won't save up to reimburse me). I also hope they fit, and still will if he ever needs them. I stocked up for every weather imaginable, though only the basics.

Then, the Exit Problem; a fire-escape or a window were out of the question (one can use them as easily to penetrate the room as to leave it); ladders are unsafe if ice-covered and provide easy prey for anyone waiting below. I installed a hatch through which he can dive into the uninhabited room below, and from thence into a back alley.

All things Medicinal I left to his own judgment. Provision is brought when necessary. I made a point of bringing a few days' worth of _Times_ and _Echo_, so that he would be able to light the fire. I considered leaving money, too, but decided against it. To be accosted for it here would be the most idiotic thing to ever happen…

He stumbles at the threshold, eyes round as saucers, and takes everything in.

- Well, Doctor, how do you like your personal bolt-hole?


	28. Holmes versus Editor

A/N: another birthday present from Mr. S. Holmes to Dr. J. Watson.

- Your Lordship...

The editor sputtered, stuck between his chair and his table. I couldn't understand how he got there in the first place; did he grow out of the gap?

- Mr. Earwax, is it?

- Yes, sir... Oh, please, give me these, sit down...

I cleaned an armchair of venerable age and marginally less venerable condition, and sat. I didn't resume talking immediately.

- I came to ask you about a certain series you print, by a Dr. John Watson.

Earwax stilled.

- A most trustworthy gentleman.

- No doubt.

- Updates regularly, and we never've been prosecuted... on his account... yet.

- Are the stories truthful?

- Variably... oh, they are, quite so, it's just sometimes... I have to check for things... he isn't a professional.

One would think after years of writing you got some idea how it's done.

- Mr. Earwax. I am a busy man, and have no time for silliness. It was brought to my attention that your… interfering is both unwanted and ruinous for the tales.

He trembled. I stood up, cutting my visit short for fear of laughing in his face.

- Do keep your editing tendencies to a minimum in this instance.

He nodded.

Perfect.

Watson will never know about our little chat; and what a better gift for a birthday?


	29. Barrymore

A/N: Baskerville Hall, two years after the HOUN.

I uncork another bottle of champagne.

The wedding is a quiet one, with a handful of guests. I was asked to attend as a former employee.

At the table, Mr. Frankland pounces upon Dr. Mortimer to explain in - apparently excruciating - detail the true nature of trade unions ("the ultimate evil of organized crime"); next to him Mrs. Baskerville mutters fiercely something about human rights, and Mrs. Lyons wordlessly toasts Sir Hugo Baskerville in his faded frame.

Sir Henry Baskerville, one hand around his wife's waist, squints his eyes at the chandelier and counts on his fingers - most probably, to estimate the amount of work needed to provide electric lighting in every room.

I am surprised Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson haven't come for the occasion. Then again, they both must've had a lifetime share of Devonshire the last time. And Sir Charles, merry reveler that he was; he is so poignantly absent from the table - I think Dr. Mortimer feels it, too. And poor Selden - we always feed trumps on his birthday and - this day, not charging them a penny. Eliza says, it adds to the inn's popularity among simple folk. I don't say that it adds to its weirdness. Somehow, I don't mind.

And I think, this is Baskerville Hall. Give it a rest, Barrymore.


	30. Mrs Stapleton

A/N: Merripit House, after the dust settled. An imaginary dialogue.

- Being a naturalist requires not only observational skills and luck, but the ability to draw conclusions also.

I am good at it: coward's is the second night.

Remember when you went to the moor? You came back shortly after dusk, white in face and soggy with mud, locked yourself in the bedroom and gulped down a bottle of whiskey. I thought you would not go through with your plans. That you'd listen.

A day later, you slapped me - that was when it first happened.

You were always most collected and quick-thinking when there were all the reasons in the world to panic and no time to do it. You fed the dog - had been doing it for months! (Though sometimes, when the heavens opened and you had to go there in the fog and rain, I knew that in a day _this_ would crumble.)

Then Sir Charles died... But in the daylight, I still could be proud of you.

Then came the heir-at-law, to my despair and your rejuvenation, and I learned what it means to be a coiled spring ever after. All nights were coward's ones.

And now you're gone. Dr. Watson doesn't forget to check on me, despite his own tiredness and Sir Henry's grave condition.

I'll tell him I'm fine.

_- For the time being._


	31. Stapleton versus disintegration

The lid clicked open, and time stood still.

This was the last box, the one where I stored most of my more valuable specimens. Apparently, the lout who threw it in the coach never knew what caution meant. Wings were smashed, crushed to motes that now danced in the draught; bits of antennae and legs littered the wadding like so many fishhooks. Scales gleamed dully. Caterpillars spinned on their pins, helplessly scratching their labels; some of them broke apart and rolled away from their assigned positions.

Disgrace. Disorder. Dust.

I scratched the number off the list in my notebook. The line I drew was straight and even. There was something not to be eclipsed even by my pride literally falling to pieces, namely Devonshire.

Footsteps. Shadow. Sigh.

- Jack? Oh, heavens...

I didn't spare my "sister" a second glance. It was obvious that a neighbour had come for an introductory visit; I saw a thoroughbred being led to the stables, and another being led to our door.

- Meet him. I shall join you presently.

She nodded, and hurried away. Why did she avoid looking at me?

In a minute I had my collection stacked in two rows, all except the unfortunate moths, and went to shake hands with a man I swore to succeed to as the Baron of Baskerville.


	32. Citizen

A/N: Stapleton is currently uncooperative. So, a pointless drabble set (very) shortly after EMPT.

On the cobblestones, two pairs of men are rolling: two seedy individuals reeking of cheep whiskey and criminal tendencies, and two upstanding citizens who currently seem to gain the upper hand in their struggle with the individuals. A policeman runs whistling.

'Sergeant! Here, hold him. Watson, a moment. Yours's a lively one.'

That was a _nice_ hook a citizen applied. Torn a few stitches in his overcoat.

'Aaah...'

That's not a reaction we expect from an officer. _In the good old times of..._

'What is it? Move, I can't collar him myself, my hands are full as it is...'

'You're _dead_...'

Where was I?.. The Sergeant, apparently, isn't right in the head, telling a living man he's dead.

'Blast it! _Do I look dead to you?_ Watson, knock him out, he's not worth the trouble.'

The shorter citizen complies.

'Oh, Lord. I'll just close my eyes. That's it, you're not here. I shall never drink again, I shall never - '

'Moron, give me a hand. Or better yet, help the good Doctor.'

'Mmph.'

Watson's being throttled. No wonder he is incoherent.

'Doctor Watson? Do you see him, too?'

Whom?

'Mmph!'

Definitely.

'Hey! Release Dr. Watson, now! I always like them better unconscious. Doctor? You all right?'

Watson rudely points.

'Help... Holmes...'

As instructed, Constable collapses on an individual Holmes bestrode.


	33. Stackhurst & Nurse

A/N: don't know what possessed me to write it, some attempt to overcome a writer's block, maybe. Anyway, here's to Conan Doyle, a doctor, and Oliver Sacks, a psychiatrist.

The latter wrote a book ("Awakenings") about his experimental treatment of Parkinson's disease; in particular, he describes people whom he was able to "wake" after decades in catatonic state. Sacks speculates quite convincingly that after the Spanish Influenza outbreak there must have been another virus, resulting in worldwide spreading of "encephalitis" (please forgive my layman's terminology).

"Awakenings" are not an obscure scientific treatise (though there is a glossary and the side notes are quite extensive), but one of the most humane books I've read; look it up. You won't be disappointed.

I found the Old Man in a chaise-long near the flowerbed, gripping a framed picture I could not see from where I stood. Considering the dearth of personal belongings of these unfortunates, I could guess what he was looking at.

He waved feebly. 'Time for my medication, isn't it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well then, just a minute.' From the paleness of his face (more like 'countenance'), he was either cold or upset, neither conducive to his recovery.

'She wanted us to marry,' he raised his eyes to me. Ordinarily, patients dislike being hovered above, but Mr. Stackhurst, an Atlant if there was one, had a way of making you feel like you were caught fencing with his favorite ruler.

'Almost had, too.'

The woman he was talking about, the one whose portrait lay in his lap, died in the WWII, having transferred her loved one into a private hospital across the world. (The war he slept through and couldn't believe had happened.)

What do you say to people who'd literally lost half a century of their lifetime?

'You're new here, aren't you?' he squinted, and smiled a generous smile of a twenty-some-year-old.

'Come. The game's afoot, a friend of mine used to say.'

'Your friend Shakespeare?'

'Honestly! The youth today…' The Schoolmaster glowered.

'At least you've read _something_.'

…but the Englishman beamed.


	34. Holmes and Watson

As we dined in a cosy cafe - my head still spinning at the swiftness of our departure - it came to me that this was the first careless afternoon Holmes and I had spent together in some five years.  
He puffed at his cigar and cocked his head to the side, amused by my unvoiced thought. Careless? We had a loaded firearm apiece. 'The English race recreates its natural habitat wherever it goes,' Holmes remarked. 'Foreign fortunes are fickle.'  
'Fickle? I find I rather like the weather.'  
He didn't answer, scanning the pedestrians sleepely. I rotated my shoulders.  
We'd had little contact since the Case of the Infectious Box. Somehow, there was no need. And - I had to admit - no great desire to meet again, at least on my part. I sent him a card for Cristmas and another one for his birthday, which alone should have conveyed the depth of my resentment for his conduct - we used to have him over if his work permitted. He understood the message only too well.  
And now this... I smiled, ruefully. Toothbrush, check. Medical bag, revolver, check. A note for the wife, check.  
'I apologize,' Holmes said quietly, still looking out into the street.  
I took out my notebook and crossed out the number 423.  
It was April, 27, our second day in Brussels.


	35. A reader's innocence

'What is it this time?' Holmes asks carefully. My misfortunes are an open book for him, but unlike the automaton in my stories, he actually possesses tact enough not to presume or condescend when a dark mood seizes me.  
'Another disturbing letter?'  
'No... It's not disturbing.'  
He waits, ever patient.  
'My stories are being translated and published abroad,' I begin.  
'Congratulations.'  
'Thank you. It seems, sometimes, that people of other cultures see things differently than we do. It's not their fault,' I add, to dispel his cold expression. 'Some of our folklore tales aren't inherently clear for them, and where an Englishman sees supernatural agencies at work...'  
'They see merely a puzzle.'  
'An interesting riddle,' I quote, glancing down into my mail.  
'Hm. And what case is described so?'  
'The Baskerville affair,' I say hollowly.  
With narrowed eyes, he springs up from his armchair and grabs his violin. He plays a lament, probably his own composition. I can hear him mastering himself as he eases his way into the melody.  
Now and again, the gulf between living memory and printed reflection proves too wide for fancy to cross. I am not angry with my readers.  
But Holmes knows, knows perfectly.  
How it feels when you walk alone amid towering yews, after another fruitless day.  
The night falls.  
And the Dog bays.


End file.
